


Three years to the day

by MashiarasDream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Dean has killed himself, Implied homophobia, I’m sorry, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, a letter to Dean from Cas, cw suicide, mentions of alcohol as a coping mechanism, this is all pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3991567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashiarasDream/pseuds/MashiarasDream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas writes a letter to Dean on the third anniversary of the day Dean killed himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three years to the day

Hello Dean.

 

It’s three years to the day today.

I miss you.

I have already called Sam. I tried to be early enough but I wasn’t. Maybe next year I’ll call him the evening before. But I have a feeling he had already broken out the whiskey yesterday. So maybe that doesn’t work, either. I’ll make sure to check up on him tomorrow, though. Not today. He still accuses me of killing you when he’s drunk.

Balthazar is here. He watches me like a hawk even though he pretends to be reading. He never talks about it but I suspect that he believes that one day I’ll follow you. I’m guessing that if I ever do, this day would have a certain symmetry to it. Would you want me to, Dean? Would you want me to follow you or did you want to leave me behind for good?

You have tried to rid yourself of me so often. I can only believe that this was your final attempt at separation. The only one where you knew you couldn’t turn back. Because it was never about me, was it? It was always about you. It was you who ran and it was you who came back. _You_ came back, Dean. Every time before, you came back to me. But then, it wasn’t me you were running from and couldn’t escape. It was always yourself.

I wish I knew. Whether you only wanted to block yourself from coming back to me, or whether you wanted to keep me from coming to you. Are you still running, Dean? Or have you found a place where you can be yourself? Where you could be with me. Would you want this to be the time that I come to you?

I haven’t told Sam any of this. It is easier for him to blame me. To believe that it was me who pressured you into something you weren’t ready for. That I am the one who made you out yourself to your father and the world. That I am the one who pushed you over the edge. It is easy to believe, I guess, so I let him. I owe him that little comfort. You, too, I think. You have always chosen the lies that give him the least pain.

Balthazar is trying to read what I’m writing. I had to shoo him away. God, you’d hate him so much, Dean. He is smug and snarky and dresses in designer clothes. He’s everything you despise. To know that he is sleeping in the bed we shared would make you furious. I daydream about it often. It would be late on a Saturday morning. You’d let yourself in with your old keys, back from a road-trip through all 50 states. You’d find him on your side of the bed, still asleep, and me on my side, not curled around him like you and I used to sleep, but close enough that you’d know. And you’d scream and shout and you’d break the lamp in your rage and you’d drag me out of the room. I would be scared at the intensity of your anger and hurt, and feverishly trying to explain myself. And then you’d kiss me, hard, your claim on me still stronger than anyone else’s.

I can never figure out what would happen next, though. Would you leave me, too disappointed to stay? Would you throw Balthazar out and take me right then and there? Would you break me into little pieces just to rebuild me to your liking? Oh Dean, how I wish you would storm in here to rip out my heart.

I had to stop for a little bit there because I was crying, and Bal never gives me peace when I’m crying. I’ve fled outside now, so if my writing is barely readable, it’s because I’m writing on my knees while sitting on the porch steps.

I saw your dad the other day at the store. Don’t worry, I made my exit before he ever noticed me. I’m not stupid. Even on days when I want to die, I don’t want my death to be at your father’s hands. He’d fuck it up like he fucked up everything else that was important.

Sam still doesn’t talk to him. I’m not sure he ever will. I have a hard time encouraging him to try, too. I hold too much contempt for John. As ashamed as it makes me to say it, I begrudge him even that small comfort of having his surviving son talk to him.

I’m grateful, you know. That Sam hasn’t shut me out of his life like he did with John. But Sam’s not stupid. As much as he wants to believe things would have ended differently if we had never met, he knows what we had, you and I. He knows that you loved me. And that I love you.

I should say _loved you_ , shouldn’t I? But it wouldn’t be true. I still love you, Dean. I always will. Everyone knows it, too. Your brother knows. Even Balthazar knows.

Getting through this day isn’t getting any easier. I’m glad that I started writing to you. It is the only time today that my eyes can focus. The rest of the time, all I seem to be able to see is the Impala crashed into that wall. Just like you, taking your baby with you. Also very much like you, trying to hide the truth to the very last moment. You should have gotten drunk, Dean. Maybe then they’d have classified it as an accident. But you didn’t want that, did you? You made a choice. You often drank too much, but your choices you always made when you were sober.

You chose wrong, though. I’m not judging you, Dean, and I can do little but to accept what you did. I’m not even angry. Not anymore. But there’s this new place around the corner and Balthazar and I tried it out last week. They serve Chicago deep-dish pizza. The best I’ve eaten outside of Chicago. Do I even have to tell you that I started bawling in the middle of dinner and ran? Because you would have loved that pizza. And I couldn’t stand the thought that you’re never going to taste it. Balthazar was so pissed. It is safe to say that we’re not going back there any time soon.

So yes, Dean, I accept your choice like I have always accepted your choices. But I still wish you had just left me. Beaten me into a bloody pulp if you had to, told me you’re no faggot, and moved to the other side of the country. It would have been easier.

I’m aware of why you didn’t, of course. We knew each other too well. I would have seen the lie in your eyes when you told me you didn’t love me. You wanted to give me a chance. To leave you behind and start over. But Dean, my love, that’s not how it works. I haven’t moved on and I don’t think I will. If you had chosen to just lie, at least I could have hoped that you live close to a place that makes awesome burgers. That you have found someone to be happy with. That you have found a way to be happy. Like this, you left me with nothing but an empty hole inside me.

I’m still going to linger. Even though pie will always taste like ashes to me. Even though I shake with tears in Balthazar’s arms and leave him frustrated and lonely even when we’re together in one bed. But I think you counted on me. You counted on me to get Sam through this. You counted on me to fix what you couldn’t fix. I can’t. Of course I can’t. But I’m still going to try. It is the only thing I can do. I’m the only family Sam’s got left.

But – if there’s one thing I could ask of you. Just this one thing. Will you wait for me? Will you hold out wherever you are right now and wait for me to catch up? I will scrounge up what courage I have to live until there are no lose ends left behind. But I cannot bear the thought of you getting so far ahead of me that I cannot catch up. I cannot bear the thought of never being with you again. I love you, Dean. So, please, will you wait for me?

I’ll bring this letter to you now. Balthazar insists on coming with, so I won’t get to talk to you at the cemetery. But that’s okay. The headstone is cold where your skin was warm, anyway. The veins of the marble have nothing on your freckles. And the grass isn’t green enough to match your eyes. I miss you, Dean. I compare everything to you but nothing compares. It hurts. It hurts a lot.

But that doesn’t mean that I would change what we’ve had. I would never turn back the other way to avoid meeting you. I was happy with you. Even with everything, I was happy.

I love you.

 

Yours always,

Cas.

**Author's Note:**

> The people I have lost over the years have been on my mind lately. No one was as close to me as Cas and Dean are/were to each other. But it still hurts. Even years later. I miss them.


End file.
